


Out Of The Office

by ahimsabitches



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Modern AU, Russian Mobsters - Freeform, dick cage, implied vore?, this really is a mixed bag, warning: the people eater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 18:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: In this modern AU, the People Eater is CFO of (Immortan) Joe Moore's oil company, and Iskra (ravenousgrue's OC) is the daughter of a Russian mob boss. My OC, Frayja Swaddledog, whom you may know as Keen the Darkling from Viper in the Garden, is Richard's executive assistant. This is first and foremost a gift to my dear friend grue, and also a prequel to my fic "#1 Grandpa". I hadn't planned on posting this fic on AO3, but "#1 Grandpa" wouldn't have made a whole lot of sense without this fic, so here we are. Mind the warnings. This gets nasty.Translation notes at the end.





	Out Of The Office

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravenousgrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenousgrue/gifts).



Using his faded reflection in the bank of windows that made up one wall of his office, Richard straightened his tie and smoothed back hair that had not been there in years. He turned and puffed his chest out. “How do I look?”

Frayja, seated across the wide brown plateau of his desk, glanced up from the leather folio in her hands, any reaction in her eyes hidden behind the dark sleek sunglasses she wore to protect her sensitive eyes. “You might button your coat, sir. Your nipple clamps are showing through your shirt.”

Richard stuck out his bottom lip. “Then how would Iskra see them?”

“She'll know.” Frayja snapped the folio closed and stood, straightening her own coat Richard had gotten custom-tailored for her, and handed the proposal back to him. “It's convincing, but it's in English. Mister Voskovensky will have to have Iskra translate, and...”

“Iskra will say whatever she damn well pleases, won't she?” Richard chuckled fondly. He had not seen his little agent of chaos in a long time, and had a hard time digging up any fucks for much else. His mind had already leaped past the office, past the meeting they were about to have, past all the politics and numbers and _damn tight_ suits-- evidently he'd gained _more_ weight since the last visit to the tailor's-- to the evening he'd have with Iskra, the sweet, wicked, delicious, torturously passionate evening.

 _I should write poetry_ , he mused to himself as a hand stole up and idly caressed his right nipple, pinched in a tiny vise, under his shirt. It didn't hurt anymore, but the point wasn't pain. Not yet.

“Though that may not be a bad thing,” Frayja said. “This meeting's success is in Iskra's interest as well. She may not translate perfectly, but she might _interpret._ Spin the information so it's more palatable to her father.”

Richard only half-heard her. He was too busy conjuring up the sight of Iskra holding that delightful snarly grin of hers over him, wearing nothing but a pair of thick-treaded boots. “Frayja dear, _oof_ ” he said, letting himself fall back into his chair with a grunt, “if you want the gospel truth, I don't care.”

One black eyebrow arched into a severe point above her sunglasses. “You should, sir.”

Richard flapped a thick, hairy hand. “Joe's bark is, in this rare case, bigger than his bite. He won't fire me if I don't get this deal.”

“If I may be so blunt, Mister Moore can screw himself on this whole pipeline project until he vomits refined crude. I'm not talking about _his_ interests. I'm talking about yours. Sir.”

Richard chuckled, gingerly flexing and extending his sore right leg under his desk. His knee throbbed dully. “Whatever do you mean, dear? I am but a humble worker bee. I live only to serve my queen. Er, king.”

Frayja's jaw muscles rippled. That was the only indication he'd riled her.

Richard couldn't blame her. She was young, after all, and so very _angry_. She had a right to some of her rage; Richard had all but rescued her and her infant son from one of Joe's spectacular real estate failures. In a paroxysm of compassion doubtless fueled by the ever-present consciousness of how damn _empty_ his house became between Iskra sightings, he had gathered the two homeless wretches into his life as a mother hen gathers her chicks. Frayja had resented her own helplessness and resented him for being the only one willing to shelter her.

But nevermind. She would find her own place soon; he had assembled a rather robust compensation package for her. Being CFO of the entire Citadel conglomerate did have its uses.

Three quick raps sounded on the door.

Richard's tired old heart bucked against his ribs. Ever vigilant, Frayja was out of her seat and at the handle before Richard had hauled himself out from behind his desk. She glanced back at him, her sunglasses poking out of her lapel pocket, and he nodded.

The tall wooden door swung open, and at first Richard could see nothing but Frayja's suited back and the massive pair of shoulders filling the doorway beyond her. She spoke a few words of terse Russian. Nervously squeezing his already-squeezed nipple, he leaned and craned his head to try to catch a glimpse of her.

 _Look at me, the nervous prom date,_ he chided himself, and changed not a bit.

Frayja stepped aside, swinging the door wide for them, and Iskra strode into his office like a pugnacious, mohawked, jean-shorted tugboat ahead of her dreadnought of a father. She flicked her eyes up and down his front, appraising him shrewdly, and Richard watched them catch on his chest, then flick back and forth. Her grin was vicious, wide, and quick. Warm pleasure curled through his entire body. Oh but he was glad to see her. He beamed and opened his arms in welcome, forcing himself to at least glance at the hook-nosed, grey-suited man taking in the layout of his office in quick flicks of his iron-dark eyes. “Mister Voskovensky. _Privyet,_ ” he said, using up a full third of his Russian vocabulary, and stuck out his hand.

Richard was a big man and tall _ish_ , but all his breadth rode below his chest. He had little to prove and even less energy to spend, so even when he occupied the most physical space, he seldom took up much _room_ in the room. Iskra's father, on the other hand, had shoulders nearly as wide as Richard's gut and the hand that shook his squeezed with sharkbite force. His knuckles ground together painfully, but spending as many years with Joe as he had had made him an expert at smiling and _schmoozing_ through all kinds of agony.

That was why, after all, Joe had put him in charge of squeezing money out of anyone that crossed his radar.

“Welcome to Citadel,” Richard said in his most ingratiating tone, and gestured to the two overstuffed leather chairs facing his desk. “Please, have a seat.” He lurched to help Iskra to hers, but she cast a withering glance at him and sat on her own. Oh but he was _glad_ to see her.

“Thank you,” her father said in heavily-accented English. “You call me Pyotr. You know my daughter Iskra Voskovenskaya.”

“Of course.” _My good man, if only you knew the ways in which I know your daughter._ He bowed to Iskra, resisting the urge to give his nipple a tweak. “It's a delight to see you again, Miss Voskovenskaya.”

Iskra made a show of rolling her icy blue eyes, but she couldn't hide her grin all way behind that toothy snarl.

He was absolute rubbish at hiding his dopey smile as well. “Please call me Richard. This is my executive assistant, Frayja Concannon.” He indicated Frayja, who had resumed her sunglasses and her silent, straightbacked place by his side. “Well.” He rubbed his hands together. “If you like, I have scotch: Black Bull and Glenfiddich, and vodka: Firestarter, which Frayja found for me, and Yamskaya, at Miss Voskovenskaya's request.”

Pyotr glanced at his daughter.

“Call me _Miss Voskovenskaya_ again and I'll smash your three-hundred-dollar scotch over your lumpy fucking head,” Iskra snarled, her eyes twinkling. Her accent had gotten a little thicker, as it did when she went home.

Richard's smile widened-- he couldn't help it-- and he felt his cock twitch. “Yamskaya for our guests, please, Frayja,” he said, trying his best not to limp around his desk to his chair. “Black Bull for me. Neat.”

Frayja spoke more halting Russian to Pyotr, who responded in kind. Iskra shook her head. Richard knew Frayja knew _some_ Russian, having lived with a bunch of them before, but that was all the detail he could pry out of her. Frayja strode across the wide office to the back corner, where stood a small bar table with bottles, a crystal decanter, and glasses of various size and purpose stacked in short columns.

“I hope your travels were uneventful,” Richard said, filling the time until Frayja returned and they could get down to business-- that was, drinking.

“We were in Melbourne,” Pyotr growled. “Meeting with...eh....” he opened his hand and glanced at Iskra.

“Biofuel,” she said, picking crusted red mud out of the tire-treads of the big black buckled boots that laced halfway up her calves.

“ _Biofuel_ people. Strange. But healthy industry. Healthy is... desirable nowadays, eh?”

Richard watched Iskra ignore him and scatter clumps of dried mud and dust on his leather chair and the Turkish carpet. He gave the sharky man in front of him credit; the trap he'd laid was subtle. But Joe had hired him for two reasons: first, he never cared enough to challenge him; and second: he could manipulate without being manipulated. _Well,_ he thought to himself and glanced at Iskra, _unless I want to be._

“Indeed. But what is health now without future profits?”

“Mmm,” Pyotr grunted.

Frayja returned with a tray, four crystal tumblers perched upon it two by two. Pyotr and Iskra took theirs, a third-full of clear liquid. She proffered the tray to Richard, who took his Scotch with a thank-you glance. He couldn't tell if Frayja had poured herself vodka or water.

Richard raised his glass. “To a future that benefits us all.”

Frayja said something in Russian-- a toast, doubtless-- and raised her glass.

Pyotr lifted his glass, nodded at her, repeated her, and drank. With a birdlike backward jerk of her head, Iskra downed her vodka and wagged the empty glass at Frayja. “Make it worth my time this time, Trinity.”

Expressionless, Frayja moved from her place by his chair, plucked the glass from Iskra's hand, and went back to the bar. Glass clinked softly. Pyotr leaned over and rumbled something incomprehensibly Russian to his daughter. She snapped back.

“Does the vodka suit you, Pyotr?” Richard asked.

“ _Da._ Tastes like home.”

Richard sipped. He wanted to not be sober but he also didn't want a gout flare-up to ruin the evening. The scotch was _damn_ good; it slid down his throat like honeyed smoke. One glass, then, and a pill later if he needed it. But he had a feeling there would be other, more _insistent_ pains that would be taking up his brain later on.

Frayja returned with Iskra's glass, filled nearly to the brim. Pyotr eyed Iskra.

“ _Spasibo,_ ” Iskra said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“ _Pozhalsta,_ Miss Voskovenskaya,” Frayja said, and resumed her post.

Iskra shot Frayja a blackly murderous glare, but Frayja remained stoic. Richard used his glass to hide the smile that crept up on him. Iskra owned him, body and soul, but there was plenty of room in his heart for Frayja too. She reminded him of his fierce, witty Victoria, in some of the best _and_ worst ways.

He watched Iskra down half her vodka at a go and didn't know whether to applaud her or chide her. That bottle had been about as expensive as his scotch; more with shipping. Instead he slid the portfolio to the edge of his desk, within Pyotr's reach. “On the subject of a profitable future, there you'll find a snapshot of Citadel's assets to date and a _healthy_ set of incentives for future stakeholders.”

Iskra smacked her lips and grabbed the folio. The way her nose crinkled as she flipped through the pages nearly broke his heart.

Distracted by Iskra though he was, Richard wasn't stupid and hadn't neglected his homework. The Voskovensky-Gorodetsky group had been the only Russian oil conglomerate curious and ballsy enough to sniff around renewables; that's why they'd bought up so much land west and south of Brisbane. But their mistake was a geographical one: they had assumed the middle of Australia correlated to the middle of America. One could not grow acres and acres of corn for biofuels in the middle of the fucking desert.

Richard's personal feelings aside, he worked for an oil company with worldwide holdings and investments, an annual growth rate of 8%, and an absolutely blistering trading streak. Saving the planet was a noble thing, but nobility didn't net one almost forty billion dollars in profit and allow one to use a full half of one's profits to buy back one's own stock and make one's shareholders the richest in the industry.

Voskovensky wouldn't be here if he hadn't known that.

Richard sat back, folded his hands over his stomach, and watched Iskra read. After only a minute she snorted dismissively and tossed the folio to her father. He flipped through it while she rose and stomped across to the window. Frayja tracked her like a pointing hound but would not move until Richard told her to, and as far as Richard was concerned, Iskra could swing from the imported chandelier by the sleeves of Richard's custom Armani coat and he would enjoy watching her do it.

He forced himself to focus on the silver hulk of a man in front of him. “I'm happy to do as much or as little negotiating today as you like, Pyotr. I understand Mister Gorodetsky wasn't able to join us, so if you need to return this information to your board--”

Not looking up from his study, Pyotr waved a hand. The thick golden ring on his finger flashed. “ _Nyet._ I speak for them.”

 _Well that's a curious way to go about the separation of powers,_ Richard thought. Then again, Joe had controlling interest in Citadel, which made him chair of his own board of directors. “Very well.” He cast a quick glance at Iskra, who stood with her nose an inch from the window and breathed a bloom of mist onto the glass. The buttery early afternoon sunlight streaming into the office illuminated the adorable spray of freckles across her turned-up nose and made the scraggly blonde fall of her hair glow. Pyotr asked her something in Russian; she said something back. Richard glanced at Frayja, but if she'd understood them, it wasn't significant enough to provoke a reaction. The _squeeeeeeeeeee_ Iskra's finger made against the moist glass was loud in the expectant silence. Richard used his glass to once again hide a smile; doubtless she was either drawing some lewd representation of some horrible act of debauchery in which they'd partaken, or was writing something equally awful.

Or practicing for when she'd carve it into his flesh later.

His cock twitched again, and he narrowly avoided sending a swallow of scotch down the wrong tube and causing a _scene._

Pyotr barked at his daughter; she paused with her finger hovering over the glass. The faded black hoodie she wore covered all of her hand but the drawing finger. It reminded Richard oddly of a snail. Iskra returned to her father, slurping vodka, and peered at the folio where he pointed.

Richard kept offering to pay for glasses for poor Iskra, but she seemed content being utterly unable to see anything unless it was inches from her face. Oh well. Iskra would do as Iskra would do, and he could no more alter her in her course than he could bring Victoria back.

At this point, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to do either.

Iskra and her father chattered animatedly, pointing at the folio and gesticulating. Richard eyed Frayja. She brought her glass to her lips and sipped slowly, focused so intently on Pyotr and Iskra behind the black racing glasses that Richard wondered if they felt it.

“This is not right.” Pyotr glared at Richard, sparks in his flinty eyes. “You cannot have license for Priobskoye fields.”

 _Bingo._ Richard applied his most silken smile. “Not _yet._ ”

“No. Belongs to Alekperov. All of it. Is why we left Russia. Biggest field gone; shitty profits.”

Richard steepled his fingers in front of his nose, luxuriating in the mistrustful, _intensely_ curious glares he got from father and daughter. “You see, Pyotr, Mister Moore, the CEO of Citadel, had the foresight to keep a lawyer from Moscow on retainer whose specialty is corporate assets and ownership. And he found a... small fault in the wall that is Lukoil's reserves contracts. If you'll turn to page fourteen...”

Pyotr flipped through the folio to one of the few pages without any graphs or pictures.

“I'll paraphrase the highlighted section on that page, if you'd like.”

“Da,” Pyotr commanded.

“Essentially, the language in their own contract does not guarantee Lukoil exclusive rights to the entire Priobskoye reserve in all cases. Yes, they did make use of the exceptions in the Civil Code to declare that land for private use, but whoever drew up the contract must have been in a hurry, because he forgot to include _in perpetuity._ So, according to our man, if an upstanding Russian citizen, say...” he gestured to Pyotr, “were to appeal to President Putin, he could obtain a presidential decree to override Lukoil's contract and return that land to the public under the Land Code.”

“Oh my god who fucking cares,” Iskra groaned and heaved herself off the arm of her father's chair.

“And then the same upstanding Russian citizen, acting as stockholder in and agent of Citadel, would deliver _our_ contract to the state, with the appropriate clauses, and...”

“...and Priobskoye is ours.” Pyotr's voice was hushed.

Richard nodded and sipped his scotch. “In perpetuity.”

A clatter of glass shattered the breathless silence. Iskra was at the bar, the necks of both bottles of vodka in her fists. “None of his shit is any good,” she proclaimed.

“Try the Glenfiddich,” Frayja said.

Richard shot Frayja a look.

“ _Nyet,_ ” Pyotr said to the folio perched on his knee. “Citadel is not Russian company. Cannot own Russian land.”

Iskra brought the bottle of honeybrown liquor to her lips and swigged. A twist of irritation soured the scotch on Richard's tongue. Iskra doubled over and coughed. “Holy _shit_ , that tastes like a bag of charred dog vomit!”

“Perhaps the Black Bull, Miss Voskovenskaya?” Frayja asked. The barest suggestion of a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.

“Fuck you, Trinity,” Iskra snapped, slamming the bottle down on the bar and shaking off the scotch that had spilled onto her hand.

“That's quite _enough_ , Frayja,” Richard growled through his teeth. She'd had vodka, then, not water. “Iskra, what's your pleasure? I can send for whatever you like.”

“My _pleasure_ is to get the fuck out of here,” she snapped, flopping back down in the chair beside her father with the bottle of Yamskaya.

 _So is mine, dear,_ Richard thought, and refocused on Pyotr. “Again, my good man, you're technically correct. But Rosneft has been letting BP drill in and pipe through their holdings for decades, with the state's blessing. I imagine Lukoil would be less likely to contest our moves in court if we were to strike a similar deal.”

Pyotr blinked at Richard. Narrowed his eyes. “And if Alekperov says no...”

Richard gestured to the folio. “We take it out from under him. I'm sure one of Mr. Putin's other oil interests would be more than willing to partner with us if you led our Russian investment team.”

A slow, predatory smile spread over Pyotr's face. “Andrei was wrong about you. You are... eh, how you say...slicky.”

Iskra cackled and yapped something in Russian. Frayja coughed, covering her mouth with a fist.

Richard chose to take the high road and ignore the obvious sleight against him. Not that disputing it would have done anything in the least. It didn't matter. Pyotr was hooked. He opened his hands and smiled. “If a man can't enjoy his work, he can't excel at it.”

If the grin on Pyotr's face was a joyful one, Richard was glad he'd never seen-- and hopefully ensured he never had to see-- a rictus of rage. Pyotr stood and held out his massive paw. Richard stood as well, and they shook over Richard's desk. Pyotr crunched Richard's hand as badly this time as last, but the grip was warm and genuine and Richard took the near-dislocation Pyotr gave his arm as he pumped it for a good sign.

“We do business,” Pyotr proclaimed and held the portfolio aloft. “I take this to Andrei tomorrow. Iskra!” He barked Russian to his daughter, who heaved herself off her chair and followed him to the door.

 _Tomorrow?!_ Bright white panic arrowed through Richard's mind. He threw himself after them as fast as his girth and gouty knees would let him. He caught Iskra's hand behind her father's back. She whirled. Her pale blue eyes seared him. His heart and his stomach swooped past each other. Pyotr turned and she snapped her hand out of his grip. Richard blinked and composed an appropriately gracious smile. “It was an honor and a pleasure meeting you, Pyotr,” Richard said, clapping him on one brickwall shoulder. “Iskra, always a delight. I look forward to seeing you both very soon.”

“ _Do svedaniya, tovarisch!”_ Pyotr tossed back at him, halfway down the hall. Iskra, trailing her father this time, glanced back at him.

 _You'll see me,_ her eyes said.

 _Thank god,_ he thought at her.

Then they were gone.

Richard closed the door and sighed. The sweet, high burst of energy seeing Iskra had given him threatened to fade, but he would not let it. He turned and tromped back to his desk, avoiding Frayja's dark, prickly gaze.

“You didn't even mention AGL, sir,” Frayja said, her voice tight with controlled anger.

A gust of irritation blew through him. “'Congratulations on closing the deal, Richard. You're an artist.' 'Thank you, Frayja',” Richard said, eyeing her archly.

“Sir, you should have at least--”

He held up a hand. “It warms the cockles of my heart to know you're looking out for my _interests_ , but I'm a big boy. I know what I'm doing.”

Frayja hiked an eyebrow. “ _Sir_ , the instant Iskra walked in the room you almost dropped to your knees and started licking her boots.”

“I was that obvious?” Richard cocked a half-grin as he slid a stapled copy of the proposal into his briefcase.

“At least have the grace to look ashamed of yourself, sir.”

Richard chuckled deeply. “Grace is not something I believe I've ever possessed, Frayja dear.”

He could almost _hear_ Frayja rolling her eyes behind her glasses. She reached for the used tumblers on his desk but he waved her off. “Leave that for tomorrow. I want to get back to the house.”

Frayja paused. “It's barely past lunch, sir.”

“Come along,” he said, already halfway to the door. His mind had already sped past the office, past the meeting they had just had, past the fear that Iskra would not be waiting for him when he got home, to how she'd looked when he'd grabbed her hand. And how he'd _burned_.

Thankfully, Frayja did not offer any more protest and followed him out, locking his office door behind her.

Tomorrow. _Damn_ it all. They only had until _tomorrow_.

His knees and right hip barking at him with every step, he marched down the long, high-ceilinged hallway toward the elevator. Frayja walked beside and a little ahead of him, ready to waylay anyone who tried to waylay him. Richard smiled to himself. Perceptive, clever Frayja. Steadfast, furious, faithful Frayja.

Unharassed, they rode the long elevator journey from the fifty-sixth floor in familiar silence, Richard's hand at his nipple. A bloom of achingly warm emotion spread out like a slow sun just below his heart. Around this time three years ago an idiot boy, too young to drink and barely old enough to drive, had rocketed his father's Humvee into the wrong lane, and the guardrail had broken, and the cliff had been steep, and the water below shallow, and the rocks in the water sharp. And that had been the end of his son's life, his daughter's life, his wife's life... and his.

He'd never been popular at the dungeon he'd secretly attended for the past several years, but there had always been someone there willing to do to him what he liked done. Which, at the time, seemed so salacious: leather and chains; a swing that folded him like a fortune cookie; masks and glistening gimp suits. Richard chuckled looking back on it now. How things had changed.

As he felt what lust for life he had left leave him after the accident, he turned more and more to vicious Mistress after Mistress, begging with every quivering ounce of him for mouthful after mouthful of any lust they could hiss into his ear, nail into his flesh, choke down his throat, let him lick off their boots.

And then into a redblack room decorated like a cave had walked Iskra, all forty snarling kilos of her, booted, leathered, positively _thrumming_ with gleeful malice. She'd only had time to belt on his favorite dildo, pull out a cattle prod and tell him how well she'd _cook_ him before the owner had her thrown out for not paying the fee for the room she'd rented.

But those five minutes, in which Richard had actually begun to fear for the integrity of his soft parts (which, to be fair, was most of him), had been enough. He'd ran after her, gotten a middle finger and an earful of Russian expletives for his trouble, watched her peel off on a cherry-red motorcycle, tracked her down anyway, and wheedled her back to his terribly empty house with a trunkful of new-bought equipment and every kind of vodka he could get his hands on.

Iskra had walked into his 300-square-meter finished basement, proclaimed it a piece of shit, examined the leathers and toys he'd bought, proclaimed them pieces of shit, had roped him to the pool table and had proclaimed him a piece of shit until he'd had the three best orgasms of his life and was, utterly and totally, with every quivering ounce of him, in love.

The dungeon that now occupied his basement had been their combined labor and had built him back up from the scooped-out shell of a glorified accountant to the man who'd steered Citadel into its longest upward trading streak and six consecutive quarters of increased revenue.

Frayja, her baby son in tow, had come along a few months ago and had been both opposite and compliment to the chaotic blonde pandemonium that was Iskra. She, too, had come to him by the skin of her willingness, and she too had nothing for Richard but feral snarls and snaps the first few days. She, like Iskra, refused to acknowledge even to herself how quickly she grew to appreciate his company and compassion. What was broken in him called to what was broken in them, and an answer was inevitable. Frayja, like Iskra, hadn't been able to tell him how much he meant to her, and probably never would. And that was fine. They didn't need to tell him, because he picked it up in the way Iskra twisted his balls and bandaged his burns and let him kiss her bloody knuckles and knew _exactly_ what to say to reduce him to a shaking, drooling mess, and in the way Frayja volleyed his wit back to him as he bounced her son on his knee and sent reservations for the Rockpool to his phone before he even knew he wanted filet mignon for dinner.

It was as if Victoria hadn't really died; she'd just mitosised into wild-eyed Iskra and blackhaired Frayja. But Richard knew that wasn't quite the truth; both his girls together could not make Victoria, and each by themselves was so much more.

But it didn't much matter, Richard mused as he heaved himself into the backseat of the Benz. He had loved and lost; he loved again and would likely lose again, at some point. What mattered was enjoying the sweet, painful tug of the darts they'd shot into his heart, until they let go of the other ends, or he died. He hoped for the latter.

Frayja slid into the driver's seat in front of Richard, tugging her sidearm out of its hidden holster at her hip and placing it gently on the passenger seat. “Do you need to stop anywhere on the way home?”

Richard registered with gratitude the change in Frayja's tone-- warmer, less deadpan--that happened every time they stepped beyond work hours. “No, thank you, dear. Just home. At speed.”

He could feel Frayja's smile as she slung the Benz out of the parking lot, flicking the shifter faster than Richard could blink and laying down a few feet of rubber.

As they rode, Richard watched the prim crowblack bun at the back of Frayja's head without really seeing it. He and Iskra had not said where they were meeting; there hadn't been time. He knew-- or he hoped he knew-- that she would not try to find him again at his office. No dungeon there. And, for someone who never seemed to be in one place for longer than a week, Iskra was awfully territorial. There was nowhere else he knew of that she'd feel comfortable.

But what if.... what if she wasn't there? She didn't have a phone. What if she waited for him somewhere anonymous, because, oh, what if her father somehow knew where he lived and Iskra knew he knew? It wasn't a far stretch to assume he did, and Richard hadn't the foggiest how much Pyotr knew-- or cared-- about his daughter's relationship with a man likely older than he, Pyotr, was.

Frayja nosed the Benz onto Richard's private drive, and he, heart in his throat, leaned forward between the front seats as they approached the white-columned main building. _Look at me, the nervous prom date._

“Oh for fuck's _sake_ , Iskra,” Frayja groaned.

Relief burst through Richard in a cool blue flood and he laughed. A fresh gash of mud crooked away from the gravelled curve of the driveway into the pristine lawn around the side of the house. At the end of this meter-long divot, a bright yellow crotchrocket leaned on its kickstand. Richard heard Frayja murmur something about driving drunk, but didn't care to catch it all. Grinning so broadly his face hurt, he threw open the door before Frayja had pulled the car to a stop behind the babysitter's car. He squeezed her shoulder affectionately through the driver's window. “That's why I pay a landscaper, my dear. Tell Atlas I'll see him tomorrow.”

“ _Tomorrow?_ ”

“Tomorrow,” he said, slammed the door, and god help him, he jogged around to the back entrance.

Iskra had draped herself across the low-slung black leather couch against the wall across from the stairs, her head dangling off the cushions and her boots smudging the leather back with more dirt. She'd made herself at home; the bottle of vodka she'd taken from his office rested in the crotch of the huge wooden X leaning against the far wall. Her hoodie was draped over the arm of the couch. She only wore a dirty white tank top under it. Her small tits, pulled toward her chin by gravity, threatened to spill out of the top. She ignored him like it was her job, working at a buckle on her favorite harness.

“Let me guess,” he said, trying to keep his voice deep and level and not quite succeeding, “you stole the spare basement key from the icebox last time you were here.”

“For your _information,_ fuckhole, I did not. Your annoying secretary gave me a key. But now I know where your spare is, so joke's on you.”

Richard shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the banister, and damn the wrinkles. “I'm sorry, my dear, I should have given you a key a long time ago.”

Iskra shrugged upside down. “Like that's ever stopped me.”

“Quite true.” The urge to go to her and sweep her up in his arms was almost overwhelming, but he knew that wasn't Iskra's way. Instead, he fetched a deep, settling sigh. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, bet you did.” She flipped herself off the couch and stomped up to him, draping the harness over one narrow, freckled shoulder. “Nobody else can beat the shit out of you like I can.”

Richard grinned. His cock stirred more insistently this time than before. A hand stole up to his nipple, but quick as a striking snake, Iskra snapped it away with the harness, then pointed it at the other end of the room, her grin matching his.

“Green safeword is _asset_. Yellow is _crude_. Red is _Moscow_. Bed. Strip.”

Richard's descent into subspace was less a slide and more of a lurching teleport. As he walked, he fumbled at the buttons of his crisp white shirt. “The bed, Mistress? How luxurious. You're too sweet to me.”

Liquid sloshed in glass behind him; Iskra had taken the bottle of vodka back and swigged from it. “You were a good boy today _._ You wore your _jewelry,_ like I told you to.”

He fought his hand down from his clamped tit. “But of course, Mistress. Only for you.”

The yellow spotlights strung across the ceiling didn't quite reach the far corner in which the bed, curtained by regal purple velvet and sheeted silky black, reared, so it looked to Richard like the bed emanated a darkly hungry purpleblack pocket of shadow. Just looking at the spiked leather straps and handcuffs dangling off it made Richard sweat. He yanked his belt off. It made a soft _prprprprp_ sound as it ran through his trouser loops.

Something hard stuck the crotch of his bad knee from behind and it folded like paper. He cried out and grabbed a double handful of the bedclothes, but the silk sheets slid like water. His knee crunched against the slick hardwood floor. Pain exploded up his leg and punched the breath out of his lungs.

“Too slow, _khryak._ Hurry the fuck up.”

“ _Ghh_ , yes, Mistress,” Richard panted. He braced his elbows on the edge of the bed and struggled back to his feet. His good foot. Nothing in him-- nothing _of_ him-- but what his Mistress wanted, he grabbed the nearest bedpost for support and undid his fly. Pain, and the anticipation of more, enfeebled his hand, despite its deftness on autopilot. His overhanging gut had prevented him from seeing what he was doing down there for the past two and a half decades, so he'd had to do everything down there by _feel._

The jangling of chains reached his ears from behind him. His heart leapt. He stole a glance to his right, at a section of the quadruple row of shelves and hanging pegs that lined one entire wall. By his eyes were some of Iskra's whips, flails, and paddles: wood, leather, plastic, in a riotous rainbow of colors. Iskra loved bright colors, things that seared one's eyes, and Richard loved anything that seared any part of him, as long as she held it.

Richard blinked and shook himself. He couldn't keep his Mistress waiting. He nudged his pants down and they fell to a three-hundred-dollar Smartwool puddle at his feet. A drop of sweat slid into his eye and stung. He swiped at his forehead with one arm and struggled with his shorts with the other, favoring his throbbing knee. Finally, they slid down.

“Oh my _god_ you are _worthless,”_ Iskra scoffed from behind him. “You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? _Trying_ to piss me off?”

_No._

_Yes._

A white blur flashed up in front of him. He nearly toppled over backwards. Iskra's face filled his vision and the smell of vodka and old cigarette smoke wafted over him. “Answer me, you useless fuck!”

“Yes, Mistress,” he barked reflexively.

“Yes _what, kryak?_ Yes Mistress or yes you _are_ trying to piss me off?”

A coy, wormy smile crept onto his face. “Yes, Mistress.”

Iskra's lip curled. “Thought so.” She pulled back, standing on the bed, and glared down her turned-up nose at him. Ugly red lust dropped into his belly. He watched her scowl slowly flip, stretch, and pull her keen, whetted teeth out from behind her pink lips. Speared on the sparks in her eyes and chained to the wicked wiggle of her tongue, Richard was blissfully helpless as she leaned close, one hand sliding silkily up his stubbly cheek past his ear, one side of her face just barely brushing the other cheek.

“ _Good,”_ she breathed into his ear.

A sizzling-hot locomotive of lust slammed into the base of Richard's brain and obliterated the last of his self-possession. His joints turned to water and he went down again, a sound like a dying thing escaping his throat.

His eyes snapped back open as pain like liquid fire spread across his chest. Iskra had connected the chain he'd heard to the clamps on his nipples and held it by the heavy padlock in the middle, the small knot of her bicep standing out on her thin arm. She chuckled. “You really _did_ miss me, didn't you?

“ _God_ , yes. Every day,” Richard whimpered, his heart in a vise tighter than the ones on his nipples.

“You didn't shoot your load already, did you?” She glanced down. “I can't see over your gut.”

“N-no, Mistress.”

“Good. _Up._ On the bed.” Iskra yanked on the chain between his tits like a rein, and he grimaced and hauled himself onto the bed. The cool sheets slid treacherously, deliciously beneath him. Iskra placed the sole of her boot on his chest above the swell of his belly and Richard happily let himself be pushed onto this back.

Iskra dragged her eyes up and down his front, and Richard felt them on him like a worm made of thorns and static. He rolled his legs open for her. She lifted her boot again and Richard thought for a glorious instant that she would press it up against his shivery-hard cock, but she only toed his great belly with it, making the mushroom-pale flesh, carpeted with coarse brown hair, ripple slowly. She cocked her head, as if idly musing to herself. Richard watched thoughts flit across her face. His heart beat faster.

“Stay,” she commanded, and leapt nimbly off the bed. Richard lay in expectant agony, sweat staining the sheets beneath him, listening to Iskra make inscrutable noises around the room: a jingle of metal, a flap of leather, a shuffle of cloth. Some noises he couldn't place.

His eyes slipped closed. _Tomorrow._ It was miles away. It was at his throat.

No. Iskra was here, and tomorrow wasn't for him now. Iskra would make tomorrow go away.

Icy teeth suddenly closed around his cock and he jerked and yelped.  
“Shut up,” Iskra said distractedly. Richard craned his head up, risking punishment for a view of only the top of Iskra's head and her bare, curled shoulders. Richard grunted as something heavy and metal tightened around his balls. “I don't trust you not to come before I tell you to, so--” She gave the cage bending his cock downward a vicious tug. It clinked against the ring anchoring his balls.

He hoped that would be enough. He _was_ so very glad to see her. “Yes, Mistress.”

Iskra did more work between his legs; he felt her hands and elbows nudge the insides of his thighs. Then she, shirtless, appeared beside the bed at his left, and without prelude slapped a fullface leather mask down over his face. It hit his nose like a punch and hurt, but he grinned into the close, hot blackness anyway. It smelled like the last time he'd worn it; like old, sour sweat and spent adrenaline. But he stuck out his tongue and took a long, desperate taste of his own shame and shivered. The zipper purred down the back of his head and the small circular vent at his mouth was opened. He sucked in a breath-- a small one-- of cool air.

“Tell me something, _khryak,_ ” she said conversationally, her words slightly muffled by the mask, “how many times a day your boss bend you over that big expensive desk you have and fuck you with his rotten dick, hmm?”

The chain between his nipples was jerked down and taut. The steel cage around his cock—and it with it-- was pulled up to press against the rim of his gut. A taut string, connecting the two, pressed a vertical line into his belly. He made a wordless noise, which thrummed inside the mask.

“Must not be too often, since you were almost _begging_ to be fucked when I walked in.”

Cold hard metal bit into his left wrist. That arm was pulled up and over his head. Richard breathed his own hot, stale air and listened to her clumping bootsteps around the bed to his right side. She cuffed his other hand and chained it to the right headpost.

“Eh? You hear me?” The string connecting his nipples to his dick lifted from his belly, pulling painfully, then snapped back down. He jerked and huffed a breath out of the mask.

“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured.

“I was half expecting you to get on your knees and beg to suck my dad's dick,” Iskra chuckled.

The thought blazed across his mind like a firework in the dark: _I would have if it would've made you happy._

“And I bet you _would_ have. Wouldn't you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, a little louder, his cock straining against the cage at the note of dark glee in her voice.

“That's right.” Richard felt her spidery weight on the edge of the bed, then it settled on top of his belly, her booted feet straddling him. His nipples started to tingle. “Filthy _khryak,_ all you can think about is getting fucked and filled up with more come than you can handle. Filled until you _choke.”_

And then three bolts of liquid lighting poured into his veins from both nipples and his balls. They funneled up his spine, snapping it rigid. He screamed, but no sound came from his locked-up lungs. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caught felon.

As suddenly as it had come, the electricity jazzing his nerves vanished. He collapsed into limpness, breathing his own sour, ozone-flavored air in rabbit-quick pants. Bluewhite starbursts illuminated the darkness inside the mask. Something warm and firm poked experimentally at one raw nipple. The new bolt of pain made him jerk like a roped dog.

“Hmm,” his Mistress muttered from miles away. “Not quite done yet. Better nuke you again.”

_Oh g--_

He was pitched into another bath of bright, shrieking agony, his lips peeling back in an unseen rictus from his gritted teeth, the entire expanse of his back from shoulders to arse arced up off the bed, quaking like a fault line.

After forever, his mistress flipped whatever switch she had, and, like a ghost glad to be shed of its corpse, the shock departed his body. It left behind a thick, cottony hum of pain. This time he could barely feel his mistress' proddings.

“Better,” she said. Richard could barely hear her. He felt her lean toward his head. “Had enough, _khryak?_ You're starting to smell like bacon. Really _shitty_ bacon.”

It took him a minute to remember how to shake his head, but he did. It was all he could do; summoning the coordination to speak was impossible. He tried to fill his lungs, but his stuttering heart elbowed the air out of them. He didn't particularly care about breathing to _breathe--_ if his Mistress told him to stop, what choice would he have-- but he wanted to _smell it._

To smell his own cooking flesh.

To fill himself with his own reek, his own filth.

Down at the bottom of a deep, squalid well in him lived a slimy, humped, eelish thing, a shivering, groaning, baleful thing that had been bound to him for as long as he could remember. He'd sewn its knifestrike eyes shut, but it still cast accusing beams on every fault and failing he buried there. He'd roped its slavering jaws shut, but it still drooled ropes of poison and whispered acid against all the praise that fell down there. It moved like silt on a riverbed, cold and black and heavy, moaned a perpetual song that was twice as real as gospel and twice as loud as reason.

It opened its horrible charybdic maw now, like a baby bird, and _wanted_.

It wanted every word of damnation his Mistress cared to pour into his ears; gulped down every ping of pain she gave him; bathed in the truth of her judgments, because it was what was broken in Richard, and it needed no mending.

Its hungry growls curdled Richard's blood and made his cock throb and _forced_ his lungs open. He clawed a breath from the dim air inside the mask and the stench of his own burning hair made him cough. Made him _grin._ He made a weak noise in his throat.

“What's that, _khryak?_ Don't tell me you're already too fucked up to speak proper. You've really let yourself get _sloppy._ ”

He fought his own mouth for the words. “M-more, please.”

“Eh?” He felt her weight shift forward on his belly. “Speak up!” She slapped the side of the mask. His head rolled to the side. With effort, he picked it up and rolled it back to face her sizzling presence on top of him.

Each word cost him a hot, painful breath, one that belonged in the teeth of the creature in his center: “More. Please. Mistress.”

Richard could _feel_ the grin spreading over his Mistress' face. The black eel inside him squirmed and moaned with pleasure.

“Good _boy,”_ she said, and he was lit up from the inside once again. His muscles went tight as tripwires and if he could have laughed, he would have. “I knew you hadn't had enough, _khryak!_ You're not _cooked_ yet! You're not _tender_ yet! I want to see your meat _fall off your bones!_ That's what you want, isn't it?”

_Yes mistress yes mistress with all that I am mistress_

His mistress howled and cackled over the high white whine of the shock punishing his body. They began to gather in a spinning star deep and low in his belly and the eel inside him whipsawed in a furious paroxysm of black glee. Distantly he felt his mistress' nails bite into the flabby skin between his tits and her thighs squeeze his middle. She shouted again, the sound hoarse and frayed at the edges.

_Yes mistress yes mistressohgodYESMISTRESSYESMISTRESSYES--_

Everything ceased. Richard dropped into an emptiness that hit him like a truck, and lay twitching in a puddle of his own sweat. His brain crackled with bafflement and the remains of the electric overdose. He gulped air into his burning lungs, the mask roaring with the tidal _whooshWHOOSHwhooshWHOOSH_ of his breath.

His mistress' weight pitched forward again. Her hands pressed into his chest right below his collarbone and her hair tickled his neck below the mask. “I didn't tell you you could come yet, did I, _khryak?_ ”

 _No, Mistress._ “N...no, Mis-Mistress.”

“No.” She reared back, and Richard felt a slickness between her naked crotch and his belly. “It's gonna take a while to get all this _meat_ tender enough to eat.” She slapped the side of his belly. “You've been a good boy, and I want to make sure you can eat it _all.”_

His Mistress swung her leg over him and dropped to the floor. The wet place she'd left behind on his belly began to cool, and the dark eel moaned a yearning: _IwantitIwantitIwantit._ His tongue snaked out and flitted across the inside of the mask.

Her boot-sounds clumped close again, and the bitter bite of cigarette smoke flooded the mask. Her weight dropped on the bed between his legs. “I'm hungry too, though, and I get first pick.”

The cage around his throbbing dick, heavy and warm now with the heat of his flesh, lifted. Richard's heart flipped over.

_Oh yes Mistress_

“Whaddaya say, _khryak?_ Rare or well done?”

She did not give him time to answer. A cousin to the electric pain burst into him from between his legs, and he did scream this time.

“Rare or well done, eh, you worthless sack of meat?” Iskra screeched. “Rare or well done? _Rare or well done?!_ ” She ground the cigarette into his balls, lifted it, pressed it in again, and again.

Richard wheezed, his entire body quaking and making the backboard of the bed rattle against the wall. _Well done well done well done I want oh please Mistress please Mistress oh please well done well_

“Mmmmm, smells like _bacon_!”

With strength he wouldn't have had uncuffed, he braced his ankles against the edge of the bed and _pulled_ himself toward his Mistress with all of the unthinking, brute willpower of a carthorse. The steel cuffs bit into his wrists; the leather straps holding them to the bedposts strained.

“Good boy, _khryak;_ good _boy!”_ Iskra cackled. “Well done it is!”

His Mistress pressed the burning tip of the cigarette to the the place where his piercing exited the bottom of the head of his dick, right in the tip of the inverted V. Richard howled and bucked his hips. The darktoothed eel writhed and knotted itself in Richard's guts; its rabid squeals pealed through him in pounding echoes that obliterated everything but

_OH I WANT PLEASE MISTRESS OH GOD PLEASE MISTRESSPLEASEMISTRESSYES_

“ _Bing,_ you're all done, _”_ Iskra singsonged. “ _Mmmm,_ time to _eat.”_

Iskra’s head nudged his inner thigh and then, oh, _teeth_ on him. _In_ him. At his Mistress’ bitten command, the orgasm tore through him, immediate and savage. As if she'd turned on the electricity again, his entire body snapped rigid and spasmed violently. He coughed a muffled, stuttery yell as he was burned clean; as the eel roiling in his belly was seared to cinders; as wave after wave of pleasure-pain slammed against the base of his brain until the strength and pain and breath and _want_ leaked out of him and left him puddled on the bed, a panting, shivering, moaning mound of hollowed-out, _blissfully_ beaten flesh.

Blood roared past his ears and his own bitter recycled breath whooshed through the mask. His brain was a damp grey fog, clots of wet ash, the remains of the eel sifting down to collect in the folds of his brain and coat his synapses with congealing grease.

Suddenly the cuff was released from his left wrist. His arm flopped bonelessly off the edge of the bed. He tried to track his Mistress' bootsteps around the bed but could not. The toothless metal jaws holding his right hand over his head let go; his right arm slid down and collided with something warm and in motion.

A flare of recognition popped against the fog in his brain and he grabbed weakly at his Mistress, passing, but his arm was rubbery and his grip weak. He moaned into the mask. His Mistress muttered something he couldn't catch. Fingers spider-wiggled beneath his head and lifted it, and the zipper purred up the seam along the back of his head.

Though the lights were off on this side of the room, brightness seared his eyes and his first breath of cold, crisp, fresh air made him cough. He groaned again, and the sound seemed miles away without the echo-chamber effect of the mask.

His Mistress' round pale face, framed on one side by whiteblond hair, swam into view on this left. She wore a half-lidded, half-smiling expression that was not marred a bit—enhanced, actually-- by the smear of blood on her lips and nose.

“Don't roll off the bed, _khryak._ I'll be right back.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he croaked, his throat sandpaper-dry.

He lay in a bowl of warm, mindless satisfaction, pleasurable needling in his arms that gradually faded, and gently pulsing echoes of pain, and listened to his Mistress rummaging around in the cabinet by the stairs, where they kept the first-aid supplies.

Her steady thumping boots, the buckles on them faintly, pleasurably jingling, returned to him and her gentle weight dipped the bed in the crook between his belly and his arm. He hissed air between his gritted teeth as she untangled the nipple clamps from the raw mess of his charred tits. He fought his own weakened arm up and around her slim, naked waist. She did not push it away.

Iskra-- his kind, giving, magnanimous Mistress-- wiped him down, patted clean his nipples and pressed bandaids over them in neon pink Xs. Richard smiled. She loved bright colors, did his Mistress.

And he loved her.

Loved her even more to realize that she'd arranged the bandages on his nipples, and others all along the burned line on his belly where the electricity had run, the way she had to maximize the amount of salt-and-pepper hair, carpeting his chest and belly, she’d rip off when it was time for the bandages to be changed.

She moved from the bed again, and Richard pulled himself up on his elbows. He wanted every eyeful of her he could get. Naked but for the massive black boots that swallowed up the bottom half of her legs, she pulled a bottle of something out of the first aid cabinet and squinted at it. Richard's heavy brow furrowed below his forehead, still beaded with sweat. He didn't like how clearly the slats of her ribs and the arc of her pelvis, arcing to meet each other, stuck out of her skin.

“Let's--” he coughed, the words sticking in his dry throat, “let's go out for dinner tonight. Somewhere special. Whatever you want.”

Iskra thumped back to the bed with a wad of gauze in one hand, the bottle of Yamskaya in the other, and a clean white towel slung over one freckled, bony shoulder. “I thought we were having _bacon_ for dinner,” she said and ran her tongue across her teeth and smeared the blood there.

Even after she'd utterly emptied him of lust, she could still _titillate him._ He reached up to fondle a nipple, remembered the bandaids, and tweaked his left nipple anyway. The pain was short, sharp, and exquisite. Despite his worry, he smiled moonily. “In all seriousness, dear--”

She silenced him with a flap of her hand. “Just call for pizza or something. Lay back,” she said, and took a swig of vodka. He obeyed and listened to liquid slosh in the glass bottle. “Sting,” Iskra said, and Richard didn't know what she meant until she held the cloth, wet with vodka, to his burned balls.

“Aaaahhh!” he crooned, the sound more relieved than pained, and gripped a double handful of the silken sheets as she bathed his balls in alcohol.

“You _are_ a sad sack of shit, aren't you?” Iskra murmured fondly.

“Only for you, Mistress,” Richard purred.

“ _Liar_ ,” she hissed, grinning, and tossed the vodka-smelling towel at his face. “I'm going to get us water.”

“Ask Frayja to call for pizza,” Richard called after her as she thumped up the stairs. He flopped onto his back and fetched a deep, settling sigh.

Loud enough to make it through the soundproofed basement door, he heard Frayja holler: “ _Iskra! Put some goddamn clothes on!”_ Iskra shouted something in Russian. Richard laughed, then winced as the hairy skin on his inner thighs rubbed against the raw places Iskra had burned on his dick and balls. Hopefully Atlas' babysitter wasn't still there. If so, they'd need a new one.

Iskra's bootsteps returned just as Richard felt himself dozing. She dropped her weight onto the bed beside him and dropped a cold bottle of water onto his chest. “I can't fucking believe you drink this shit,” she said, leaning on his belly and guzzling her own bottle of Aqua-Cola.

Richard sat up and uncapped his. “It's free, my dear. The one thing Joe doesn't make me pay for.”

Thinking of Joe made him think of work, which made him think of _outside,_ which made him think of _tomorrow._ Trepidation dropped like a stone into his belly. “By the way, dear, what time is it?”

Iskra burped, tossed her empty bottle aside, and draped herself over his belly. “Eh. Threeish?”

“Three in the _morning?”_

Iskra barked a laugh. “ _No,_ idiot, _afternoon._ ”

Richard blinked. “Oh. We've only been down here for two hours?”

Iskra mumbled, her eyes slipping closed.

A burst of bright, warm joy suffused him. He hooked an arm around Iskra's shoulders and tucked her up against the curve of his side. “Oh good. Oh _good._ ”

“I'm nowhere near done with you, _khryak,”_ Iskra murmured. Richard watched her booted foot arc into the air and crash down on his well-punished balls.

“ _Hoooh,”_ he said, and jerked uselessly. Pain and nausea bloomed like a lotus in his guts. He groaned, then smiled. Laughed. Kissed the top of her head. The darktoothed eel began to congeal again in his guts. Began to moan softly again. “Yes, Mistress.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Khryak= boar  
> Privyet= hello  
> Tovarisch= buddy, pal, friendo, chum  
> Spasibo= thank you  
> Pozhalsta= You're welcome  
> Do svedanya= goodbye  
> Da= yes  
> Nyet= no


End file.
